


Most Nights

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Affection, M/M, Moirails With Pails, Rough Sex, it's pale but shit happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: These nights will do you in, someday. You're as sure of it as you are of the everchanging sea, of your place in it, of your status in this world. Psionics aren't meant to last. Seadwellers aren't meant to stoop so low.These nights. These nights make you question why, make you fall all the further into pale. They settle into your bones and soul.





	Most Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xagave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xagave/gifts).



> "Gonna be real here, I'm SO THIRSTY for ANYTHING with Dualsol. Pale Dualsol (who also like to bang despite that not being very pale) is my absolute favorite but I'll take them in any quadrant or no quadrant at all. Any scenario is fine, no matter how fluffy or dark I will greedily consume any and all content of them.
> 
> The only thing I ask is that Dualscar is Tall and also built like a Brick Wall because hot hot like tater tot 8]"

Little things could change the course of history at a moment's notice. Of all the trolls that roamed the stars and seas and skies above in Alternia's name, you knew that best. Little things—like a clown falling through on his first mission, his first (and last) attempt to impress your Empress. Like the Condesce turning her ambitions more inwards, deciding to leave some trolls behind to shore up defenses on the home planet while she worked on a  _slow_  expansion, a dedicated conquering of the stars.

Like some idiot yellowblood wandering his way into your life without so much as a by your leave.

 

Sollux Captor could easily be termed the bane of your entire existence. Unfortunately, this would be in the same breath that you labeled him to be one of the most important trolls in your life, which presented itself as quite the conundrum. It would be easier if the only thing you felt for the guppy was a rightful pitch (you had, you remembered, felt such a flicker with his Ancestor, not so long ago), but the emotions he pulled out of you were decidedly more pallid in nature.

It wasn't your fault. The boy was a fucking disaster.

 

It was the little things, though—the way he got incredibly distracted looking at your fins, his backlit eyes following each little movement, and flicker, and flutter. The way he pushed you down on the bed, firm but gentle, and stripped you down slowly as he traced over your deeps-given bioluminescent markings. The way his power flared up when he was pushed, reminding you that your moirail  _was_  the most powerful psionic in several generations.

The way he handled you, and matched you, and soothed you at your worst.

The little things.

 

* * *

 

On a night like this, the moon hangs heavy in the air, and the weight of the world settles itself onto your shoulders in a way that has them bowed more than you wish to show. The fact that he knows it, even when you hide, even when you employ tactics that have always,  _always,_  worked before, is nearly enough to make you hate him.

Nearly, very nearly so.

Before it ever happens, though, he reaches up to your fins and cups them, enough that you can feel the electricity running through his body, a different kind of blood through a different kind of vein, and he sends a scattering of those sparks over your fins in all the right ways to make your knees buckle.

When you all but topple into his arms, he catches you with his psionics and carries you over to the bed like that. The smug grin he wears isn't nearly as well hidden as he thinks it is, and you growl at him.

"Shoosh," he informs you, papping one of your fins. They cant down before you can help yourself, and you automatically offer up a chirp. His shit-eating grin grows. "It's cute when you think you can act all tough and cover up exactly how shithive fucked up you're feeling."

You would like to argue. You  _really_  would like to argue. Unfortunately, he's not wrong, and he is so incredibly not wrong that you're not even in any shape to fight off his pallid attentions and caring intentions. It's fucking humiliating, to say the very least. 

 

You feel pathetic.

He sees you pitiful.

And he doesn't run.

 

It's a novel fucking feeling, it is, having someone who actually returns a redrom's interest, again and again. He doesn't run, he doesn't ignore, he neither fights it nor denies it. Deeps take you if you lie, but sometimes, if pressed, you'd admit to wondering if he hadn't maybe picked you out pale himself.

Oh, sure, most nights (half the time, if you'll be honest, which you won't) you're the one caring for him. His headaches are legendary and frequent; the visions and dooms he hears are traumatic at best. You're not sure how he's not more of a pale stud then he is.

Of course, the illusion's a little ruined the moment he opens his mouth, but he doesn't run, and you find yourself holding that high up against every other possible issue anyone—including yourself—might have, with taking someone like Sollux Captor as a moirail.

You find it winning out, more often than not. You find it hasn't lost yet.

 

* * *

 

On a night like this, he settles you down on the bed, flicking his powers around like they're counterfeit caegars at a smuggler's marketplace. Your boots sail off and land in their rightful place by the door; your coat and vest do the same as you're gently lifted once more. He strips you down to underclothes and curls around you as much as he can, his beanpole six-foot-four to your seven even sturdy. It's kinda cute, if you were one to comment on such things.

"Shoosh," he says again, even more insistent this time. You're having trouble arguing all those logical reasons you had  _not_  to shoosh just a moment ago.

Sensing his victory, he leans in to kiss your fins, your forehead, soft all over your face. The sweetness makes you flush a deep violet, duck your head down. Gods, he makes you wonder why you hadn't sought such things out far sooner than this.

 

When he tips your chin up, wanting to see your face, you remember, and you growl at him, deep and low.

For all his pale leanings, the sound rings harmonics in his bone you know well: you were there when they were built. The glow in his eyes brightens, slightly, and you shift—not much, not too quickly, but enough to roll him over to his back. He looks up at you, steadier than he is some nights, steadier than you yourself feel. "We both know this would not fall strictly within the bounds of pale," you begin, and he snorts.

"Since when do we keep 'within the bounds' of anything?" You bare your fangs at him in reply to his taunt, and he grins again. "I'm serious, DS. We're not going to get shot or anything, holy fuck."

"You don't know that," you grind out—it would be much easier to take his assent and run with it, but sometimes you're struck with an inexplicable, overwhelming urge to make him  _understand_.

(you know it's gotten worse since your brief little sojourn into the archives, and forcing yourself to remember those memories you buried so long ago, the reason why his sign looked so achingly familiar.)

He shrugs, and you would growl if it weren't for the way he reaches up to massage your hornbeds until you're nearly slumped against him, purring. "So maybe I don't know that. Do you?"

"It's—"

"Look. All I'm saying is, I don't mind, you don't mind, and I don't see why it should be anyone else's business. Ok?"

"Okay," you say, and press a kiss to his throat. He shudders, his hands twisting into your hair. The guppy's still so sensitive, in so many ways—one of your favorite games is touching his back until the air is full of static and his skin is painted gold—and you intend, as you always do, to take thorough advantage of it.

 

* * *

 

On nights like this, when he's so focused on you, so determined to soothe and settle you, it's easier to take that advantage. His focus turns to hyperfocus at the drop of a hat, and you make sure to get him exactly as you want him before you properly begin to rile him up. Hands down his sides, your mouth on his neck, marks and bites and bruises that will let everyone who sees him know that you've had him, that no matter what quad you're calling it, he's  _yours_.

 

You are a seadweller; you are possessive to a fault. You are aware of these facts, and you could not give less of a shit.

 

When his nook tightens up around your fingers, as a flare of psionic energy runs up his skin—you're so fucking glad you switched back to the old oil-burning lamps and candles of your wayward youth—it's your turn to grin, a flash of shark-sharp teeth that have him moaning, his grip on your horns tightening up. You barely feel it.

But you do lean in to take advantage of that open mouth, shifting one of your knees under his hips as you lift him slightly up, until he can't properly fuck himself down against your fingers anymore. He doesn't even seem upset, sparks gathering at the corners of his eyes as you curl them deeper, and give a harsh twist that has him crying into the kiss again.

 

It's a certain kind of pale that takes things pailwise, and he's always been a fair hand at trying anything that would go against society's customs and norms. You're not the sort, is what you insist, most nights. Sometimes you're better at convincing yourself than others—this is not such a night.

 

You curl your fingers up again, and Sollux nearly screams, his back arching as much as it can, when you've got him half-hoisted like this, completely at your mercy and vulnerable to whatever method of attack you might choose. It's beautiful.  _He_  is beautiful, for all of his gangly height and pointy elbows and sharp edges that not even sweeps at sea can wear smooth. You've got your own fair share of rough ones, though, so you already know it's far from your place to pass judgment.

Instead, you watch.

It's well worth the view: he twists, as much as you allow him to, down against your hand, writhing against the sheets, his mouth parted into a needy, desperate little gasp. It's a pretty thing, the way he takes and reacts, the way he gets so much quieter when he gets close to pailing hard.

Your attention is on him, completely, when he spills golden across your hand.

 

* * *

 

On such nights like these, usually, you would allow him respite. A moment to collect himself, as you play at more caring-kind-pallid than you'd usually know how to be. It's something of a novelty to you. True, there are nights where one movement blurs into the next and he's no sooner finished than had your bulge buried sheath deep inside of him. But usually, on nights when he's the one easing burdens off your back, weight off your shoulders, you go a little slower. Take a little more time, offer a little more care.

 

Which definitely explains his startled trill when you roll him onto his stomach and shove into him.

 

He handles being fucked raw extraordinarily well. It's not something you care to share with anyone else—least of all your crew, your bitch of a kismesis, any of the other trolls who have expressed even the  _slightest_  fragment of interest in him—and you growl, those possessive harmonics making him shudder against you once more.

You tend to enjoy tugging him up, to make him watch his own reactions in the mirror, see the moment of his breaking. Instead, you curl around him, tight and fast, and he gasps against the bed as you lay claim to his body and blood, breaking skin to leave your own marks across his neck and shoulders, his thighs and back.

 

When he finishes, this time, he gasps out your hatchname in a voice that has you following not far behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the angsty summary (ya boy Dualscar has a tendency to brood like a laying hen), they live a long and happy life together, and it's great.


End file.
